


looks can be deceiving

by novoaa1



Series: sundresses and semi-automatics [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: College, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Guns, Light Dom/sub, Reader-Insert, a bit of introspection on reader's part, but also like natasha bein lowkey dom when they talk for a bit, idk - Freeform, like soft feels about how natasha's changing things for reader, mob!natasha, reader is daughter of a mob boss, shes like got a very cutesy aesthetic going on and everythin, theres kind of a little bit of everything here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:55:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22396663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Outward appearances aside, you’re no stranger to the more unsavory aspects of your father’s life.Because, yes, perhaps you aren’t quite complicit in his work (at least not in the traditional sense), but you’re involved just the same. What’s more, you aren’t so deeply immersed within it all because you have to be. Rather, you allow it because youwantto be.Youwantto be close to your father, even if that means gun smoke and Glock 19s and a terrifying suspicion lying dormant deep within your very bones that you won’t ever live to see this carnage end.Or: After meeting Natasha (and Yelena), you do some thinking. Then, some talking. Then, some more thinking.
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/Reader
Series: sundresses and semi-automatics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602451
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	looks can be deceiving

**Author's Note:**

> more mob stuff i guess cause like why not right?
> 
> this is more of a filler thingy cause i wanna kinda establish what reader's feeling here and like what headspace she's in and all that

Outward appearances aside, you’re no stranger to the more unsavory aspects of your father’s life. 

Because, yes, perhaps you aren’t quite complicit in his work (at least not in the traditional sense), but you’re involved just the same. What’s more, you aren’t so deeply immersed within it all because you have to be. Rather, you allow it because you _want_ to be. 

You _want_ to be close to your father, even if that means gun smoke and Glock 19s and a terrifying suspicion lying dormant deep within your very bones that you won’t ever live to see this carnage end.

Still, above all else, you make a concerted effort simply to _live_ , even in spite of it all. 

You wake early most mornings, attend classes in the City centered around though-provoking topics that stir genuine excitement within you, and when your closest friend at college (a pretty brown-eyed girl by the name of Liz Allan) innocuously asks what your plans are after graduating from the university in just under two short years, you do your very best to humor her with an answer that at least resembles normal. 

You laugh and you learn and you _live_ through every backhanded deal and bullet wasted and life lost because maybe it isn’t perfect (the farthest thing from it, actually), but it’s yours—and fuck it all, but that means something.

More importantly, you’re determined to _make_ it mean something. 

You think, to a certain degree, it’s made you indifferent in such a way that borders on foolish. Case in point: meeting Natasha (and Yelena, her significantly grumpier counterpart) on that very first day. You didn’t shy away from her predatory gaze upon you, just returned it her stare with a demure smile that told her all she needed to know about you. 

It was like a moment of truth—when you well and truly signed away what precious little of yourself you’d managed to keep pure throughout it all… untainted by the fallout of everything your father is, everything he’s _become_. 

You can’t help knowing that you have to decide something before you even think to go any further with Natasha, something you’ve been avoiding for far longer than you’d care to admit. You have to decide just how far you’ll go to protect this crazy life, to what extent you’re willing to let it consume you… whether or not you’re ready to truly call it _yours_ (as opposed to just your father’s).

It’s a terrifying thing to ponder—finally choosing once and for all. 

You’re not afraid to admit you’ve lived your whole life with one foot out the door on all of this, forever making room for the possibility that one day you might part with it, with _him_ … that to a certain degree, some fundamental part of you refused to entertain the idea that this, right here, would be your forever and always. 

Because, sure—it’s your current reality. Your past, too. 

You aren’t quite sure why, but you never saw it being your long-time future. 

And, this? _Natasha?_

It could change everything— _she_ could change everything. 

(In a lot of ways, you think she already has.)

God, you just hope it’s for the better. 

— — 

You don’t even last a full 24 hours before plopping yourself down on the plush leather upholstery of the booth directly across from where your father works fastidiously through a rather substantial stack of boring-looking paperwork, gold-plated custom-made fountain pen in one hand, nearly-empty glass tumbler (containing approximately a finger of what you think is likely his favorite scotch) in the other. 

He doesn’t bother to look up, all his attentions fixated solely on the neatly-typed figures (all of which look like outright gibberish to you) printed compactly upon his papers. As such, instead of those familiar chestnut-brown eyes you’ve known since childhood, you're met with the sight of his neatly-combed-over locks of greying hair atop his head as he hovers diligently over his paperwork, clearly deep in thought.

And, because you’re a good girl (and good girls are known to be polite), you take this in stride: crossing your legs one over the other (just as your mother taught you); taking a brief moment to smooth the nonexistent wrinkles in the skirt of your sundress (a pretty pastel pink one, this time); clasping your hands neatly in your lap 

And then, you wait. 

(Luckily, you don’t have to wait for very long. You know all too well your father couldn’t stand to allow even a second’s worth of unhappiness to settle upon you, not if he could help it.)

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks you pleasantly after scribbling something in the margins of an important-looking legal document, then setting his pen aside and leaning forward in his seat to give you his undivided attention. 

You bite your lip, stalling momentarily for time as you puzzle silently over how to word this, how to ask about _her_ without being completely transparent. “Natasha and Yelena seem… nice.”

… _Could’ve been worse_ , you muse absentmindedly to yourself even as your father’s genuine grin widens at your hesitant words, warmth sparking in his gaze. 

“They can be a bit rough around the edges. Especially Yelena,” he provides bemusedly in that gravelly tone of his, then lets loose a good-natured chuckle when you quirk a single brow as if to say _‘No, shit.’_ “But they’re good at what they do, and they haven’t managed to piss me off yet, so I think I’ll plan to keep them around… at least for a little while.”

You nod along with that response, as if it pleases you. (It really doesn’t. It’s about as generic as it gets, unfortunately.) “Are they Russian?” 

Your father gives an inattentive nod. “They are. How did you know?”

“Yelena’s accent is kind of thick,” you remark with a shrug, feigning indifference as best you can. “Though Natasha’s American accent was flawless.”

Your father gives another slow nod, thin lips still curled into a kindly grin even as he begins to appraise you with a slightly curious look from across the table. ( _Crap_.) 

“Yes,” he affirms simply. “Ms. Romanov has quite the knack for espionage, I’m told.” _Romanov_ , your brain repeats. _Natasha Romanov_. (It might just be the most gorgeous name you’ve ever heard.) “Why do you ask?"

It feels like half a millennium (but is probably only a mere handful of seconds) passes before you become aware of the shrewd, expectant look your father is giving you. 

It dawns on you then that you’ve yet to answer your father’s question, far too preoccupied with thoughts of green eyes and a dimpled smirk and how the name ’Natasha Romanov’ would taste falling from your lips, curling around your tongue, ghosting across your skin… 

(God, you need to get a grip.)

“U-Um,” you stutter, feeling a heated flush rise to your cheeks even as your father’s brows inch steadily towards his receding hairline. “I’m, uh—just… Just curious, Dad.”

He nods, brown-eyed gaze narrowing like he doesn’t quite believe you. (Honestly, you don’t much blame him.) “You know that you can tell me anything, right, Y/N?” he questions (though it comes out sounding like more of a statement than an inquiry), a note of rare sincerity in his gruff tone that pulls ( _yanks_ , really) painfully at your heartstrings. 

“I—I know, Dad,” you assure him hastily, hands fidgeting restlessly in your lap. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetie.”

— — 

The next time the two of you interact (you and Natasha, that is), it’s just past suppertime on a Friday evening. 

The pale violet skies outside darken visibly through the window panes, and you’re tending absentmindedly to the bar since it's Bucky’s date night with Steve and the burly man had clocked out early to prepare. That left the majority of the clean-up to you: wiping down the polished wooden counter with a damp rag, bussing used shot glasses and empty glass tumblers into the cluttered sink out back, organizing each tonic and mixer and inebriant neatly back into various rows lining the shelves. 

You’re preoccupied, humming an arbitrary tune to yourself, when she creeps up on you like a shadow in the dead of night. 

“Hard at work, I see,” comes that vaguely familiar voice (wrought with its typical degree of droll amusement).

You jolt, nearly dropping the shot glass you’d been wiping down. 

_Jesus_. 

You heave a full-bodied sigh of relief upon being greeted with the sight of a smug-looking Natasha Romanov standing across from you on the other side of the counter. 

“I—Christ, Natash—I mean, Ms. Romanov,” you stammer out, open-palmed hand sprawled over the exposed skin of your heaving chest (where you can _feel_ your heartbeat racing at least three times faster than you think is probably healthy). “You frightened me.”

Her brow furrows over intense green eyes at that, an apologetic look crossing her regal features. “I apologize, Y/N—I didn't mean to.”

You let loose a breathy chuckle, pacifying relief flooding over your frayed nerves even as you struggle to maintain eye contact with the intimidating woman. “No, it’s okay—my fault, really, Ms. Romanov,” you assure her, shaking your head self-deprecatingly, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. “My skills of observation are… pretty much non-existent.”

Natasha shrugs, as if it’s of little consequence to her, though a rather curious hint of apology lingers in her shrewd expression. “Natasha.”

You blink owlishly back at her, a stupefied expression upon your face. “What?”

“I’d like for you to call me ‘Natasha,’ sweet girl,” she drawls, the corner of her lips tugging up into a lazy smirk that has you blushing from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. “Do you think you can manage that?”

Were it anyone else, you’re sure you might’ve felt somewhat irked in the face of such blatant (if not admittedly gentle) condescension. But somehow, it’s different with Natasha. Everything is. 

You find yourself giving a shy nod in response to her lofty inquiry rather than arguing, cheeks hot with an utterly delectable sort of shame that seems to set your very being alight with want. 

“Good,” she purrs, evidently pleased, something almost _predatory_ glinting in her eyes. “I think the two of us will get along quite well.”

— —

**Author's Note:**

> drop a comment to let me know what you think? 
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) \- or just search @ultralightdumbass to find me there!)


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